


Undercover

by GhostHost



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU where Ratchet finishes Drift's change from Deadlock instead of Wing, Gladiators, Hurt/Comfort, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 12:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12726597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHost/pseuds/GhostHost
Summary: Ratchet insists on going undercover to help save enslaved mechs.The fact he ends up in a cell with Deadlock is only half the reason the whole mission’s totally screwed.





	Undercover

**Author's Note:**

> Tis the cleaned up version from Tumblr. I have a head canon that Ratchet never truly see's Drift as Deadlock. He knows they're the same person and shit but he just, never quite accepts it. That's why he constantly reverts to calling Deadlock Drift, and if not reminded, will go from thinking about Deadlock as Deadlock and instead think of him as Drift. 
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of wounds/self injuries to fix wounds, mentions of deaths, just your general basic warnings.

Undercover 

 

* * *

 

Ratchet was not typically the mech you’d send undercover.

Unless the mech you needed was a medic. In which case Ratchet would  _ insist _ on being sent undercover.

He won that argument on the grounds of necessity alone-along with a few compromises of who would go undercover with him.

Not that anyone was happy about it. 

None of that mattered now. What mattered, was that the place they were investigating did have the Cybertronian slaves Jazz’s intel said they had. The planet was in a system decently out of the way of most trade ships and general travel for their species. Out of sight, off all radar. Enslavement of their race was extremely rare these days, and the species doing it were smart in who they targeted for capture. 

Smart--but not smart enough. 

Their leaders and public faces had refused to speak to any of the members of the Galactic Council still willing to work with Ultra Magnus-- beyond denying that they had such slaves, of course. Which left recon and retrieval. 

Six mechs had already been recovered. Three Autobots, two neutrals and a ‘Con. All carried significant damage--two had offlined from their injuries. The fact that one of the deceased was an Autobot had gotten under everyone’s armor. Adding to that was the fact that the few mechs aware enough to give information had confirmed Jazz’s suspicions. Captured mechs were  being used as gladiators, for an underground fight ring. 

It hadn’t taken them long to discover mechs of all kinds were the current popular creatures being fought and bet on. 

Ratchet had been confident in his own abilities, and that of his teams. He trusted Jazz’s intel, trusted Jazz, and trusted all the Bots who would be working to both get “caught” and then released. His job was pure and simple--to provide enough medical aid to prevent further death. No matter the badge or the mech in question. 

Of course things hadn’t gone as intended.

They had contingency plans. Multiple, in fact. All of them went completely and utterly sideways and Ratchet truly doesn’t think anyone's to blame--they had the right intel, they made the right play. If he had to do it again, Ratchet knew they’d take  the same approach all over. 

No, things had gone wrong in ways that couldn’t be predicted. Contacts were waylaid, people slated to help them cornered, and too many questions asked at critical points. 

They were still successful in getting everyone in, under cover.

They just weren’t all  _ together.  _

Ratchet was cursing his luck (and Jazz and Primus and anybody else he could momentarily blame) when his journey finally ended with being thrown in a cell--and abruptly shut up the second he saw who he he was “rooming” with. 

White crumpled black and white armor, two thin head finals, damage where the badge should have been... 

This mech, Ratchet would know anywhere. 

_ Drift.  _

 

xXx

Drift was dying.

His injuries had been horrid to begin with, and Ratchet had been shocked when the gladiators had barely patched him up before sending him out to his next round. The mech hadn’t said a word to him, barely seemed functional and the medic was amazed when he came back at all. 

“Come on Drift.” Ratchet said. Half-begging as the gunner’s optics flickered. “Stay with me.”

He rebooted Drift’s systems, the shock forcing several back online. He was expecting it to jump-start his processor, was ready if the ‘Con came up swinging. He would be done in a second, the reboot only capable of powering every system for a brief moment before it targeted those most in need, but a second was all someone like Drift needed. 

Drift’s optics blazed, his body lurching as he tried to get up. Ratchet allowed him to sit up, but supported his back as the energy left, slowly lowering him back to the ground. Drift’s optics darted around, a frown on his face-until he spotted the medic above him.

“R-Ratchet?” He wheezed, optics widening as though seeing Ratchet for the first time. 

“Yeah.” Ratchet answered, surprised Drift had recognized him, and unsure if that was a good thing. “Easy, don’t struggle.” 

“Did they-get-you?” Drift got out, in between cutting static. 

_ Vocalizer has  been damaged. Running at 35% efficiency. Primary damage to left cord.  _ Ratchet’s HUD informed him, after his scans finished. 

“Yes.” He repeated. “It’s alright-backups coming. They won’t have either of us for long.” Which well, was true. Help was coming--for Ratchet. 

His mission was to pull any and all mechs out though, and he was sticking to it. Even if one of those mechs was a Decepticon. Even if it was _ this  _ Decepticon. 

Ratchet pulled Drift to him, resting the mech atop of his own body. Drift’s systems needed all the help it could get, and leeching heat from Ratchet would go a long ways in aiding his internal repairs.  

That done, all Ratchet could do was wait. He took himself in a light recharge, making sure the alarms would trigger if anything got remotely near him.

He got nearly 8 hours before one alarm tugged him awake. 

“Drift?” He asked, carefully, as the mech forced his way to his feet. 

“ Deadlock.” Grunted the mech, holding onto the wall to steady himself. “Not Drift.” 

Right, of course. Deadlock.

How could he forget.

“You’re severely injured. You need to lie down.” Ratchet’s tone had dropped, from careful to stern, the reminder of just who he was dealing with more than enough to bring him back to reality. At least, reality in terms of Drift- _ -no, not Drift. Deadlock- _ -accepting things like help from an Autobot. 

“They’re coming.” Was the curt response and Ratchet frowned. He hadn’t heard anything, nor could he see much in the currently dim lighting, but Deadlock still fought his way to the front of the cell. Checked over himself, a pinched look on his face that told Ratchet he hadn’t healed nearly enough in eight hours and knew it. 

“They can’t be sending you back out.” Not already, not yet. Not if they wanted to make any kind of money. Deadlock was in no condition to  _ walk  _ let alone stand!

“Not fighting.” Deadlock grunted. Tremors ran through his frame, he seemed to be working to get them under control. 

Ratchets response was cut short as the lights outside their cell flickered to full power. Footsteps rang down the hall, loud voices  talking and laughing in the kind of gruff manner universal to bored guards everywhere.

Ratchet rolled to his feet, preparing himself mentally and checking his stashed weapons. Now was not a good time to attempt a breakout, but he wasn’t going to let another mech die in front of him. 

Even if that mech was Deadlock. 

“Stay behind me.” The gunner grit his teeth, forcing his stance wide. 

“You can barely stand.” Ratchet countered. 

“You will not survive if they grab you.” Deadlock’s optics were focused on the guards as they come into view, flaring his armor to hide how unsteady he was. 

“I’m stronger than I look.” Ratchet edged to the side, trying to calm the gunner, down, all too aware of his berserker nature. “I can handle it, Drift.”

“It’s  _ Deadlock _ .” The mech hissed, finally twisting his head to look at the medic. “And you’re not  _ getting it _ . They didn’t grab you to be a fighter. They took you for bait.” 

A chill went down Ratchet’s spinal strut, his own optics now moving to the guards calling as they indicated which mechs out of each cage were going. He saw mechs getting dragged out, some controlled by collars and shock sticks, others literally pulled by chains. 

Some where weaker. Smaller than the others. More damaged.

Bait.

_ Primus _ . 

“I’ll survive.” He said. Because he had too. Because medics were more sturdier than they looked and Ratchet specifically had modifications to give him the classification of combat medic. 

“Yeah, in what condition?” Deadlock snarked back, pulling on an inner strength that had followed his entire -- _ Decepticon _ \--career.  “No one here can piece you back together.”

Again, Ratchet’s response was interrupted, as the guards stopped in front of their cell. Three bulky beings, organic reptilian looking brutes with enough metal on them to be classifried as cyborgs. Two carried what looked to be electrified sticks. Ratchet didn’t have to look at those for long before feeling uneasy. 

A conversation took place, somewhat joking somewhat serious all in an unidentifiable foreign language. The gist of it seemed to be over deciding who had to go in the cell--or at least, that’s what Ratchet thought some of that gesturing meant. Whatever it was, it didn’t take place for long.

Deadlock didn’t attack them when two entered, though it was clear the guards expected it of him. Their treatment was downright nice and just the right amount of cautious, and clearly somewhere a lesson had been learned about what Deadlock could do, even as  injured as he was.

There were gestures and grunts, and clearly Deadlock was right. They wanted the gunner, not Ratchet. 

The guards cast him an odd look as Deadlock was escorted out. 

He had the sudden realization that they hadn’t expected him to survive being placed in Deadlock’s cage. He wasn’t sure if he was intended to be a prize or something to potentially wound Deadlock before his next match--but whatever it was, Ratchet himself was not expected to be in one piece. 

He played into that, pretending to be hurt. It wasn’t difficult-he knew what a real limp looked like. Knew he looked haggard enough, plating scuffed and dented from the struggle of being caught, that he could conceivably pull it off. 

It went well enough, for the most part. 

They let him live. And they didn’t take him out. 

Ratchet was never pulled for whatever they took Deadlock for. The mech never mentioned what exactly it was they were doing when they weren’t fighting him and Ratchet had the decency not to ask.

He had a few ideas about it. 

None of them were good.   
  


xXx

Days later Deadlock paced in front of him, every inch a caged fighter, optics glinting with bloodlust. He was getting stronger, the field supplies going a long way to help his recovery along. 

Ratchet expected Deadlock to stay in the opposite side of the cell, when he returned this last time but he didn’t. Hadn’t. 

Instead they played a new part, the part of aggressor and subdued victim. Faking being cowed wasn’t in Ratchet’s wiring, but he managed it when it gave him the excuse to huddle close to Drift. To continue healing him, continue discussing plans of action. 

In return Drift kept Ratchet updated. Discussed things with him, under the guise of leaching heat and energon. 

Things were getting worse. The few other mechs Ratchet knew where here were dying--some loudly, painfully, in range of Ratchet’s audio’s but nowhere to be seen. Their deaths haunted him, as did the supposedly increasing risk of the gladiatorial fights. Less and less came back everyday and the numbers--larger than intel initially thought--were now down below the original estimate of slaves. 

Something was happening, Deadlock had said. Something was making their jailors try and increase the fatality rates. 

The fact that it might very well be something as trivial as approval ratings made the both of them furious--but there was nothing they could do about it. 

Nothing _ Ratchet _ could do about it. 

About  _ any _ of it--and that haunted him too. 

So he fell to distractions. Talking to Drift outside of updates was hard, but his worry, his fears as this entire mission fragging  _ failed  _ made him keep trying. 

Today’s attempt was something a touch bit more personal. 

Ratchet eyed the scored metal in place of where the Decepticon badge would normally rest-could see the outline of it on Drift’s armor. 

Badges were meant to sustain heavy damage, and adhere to where they were placed unless specially removed via a heating method. Clearly Drift’s had been ripped off. 

“No one else's badge is removed. “He observed aloud. “Why did they take yours?” 

“They didn’t remove it.” Deadlock said after a moment, optics firmly on the front of the cell. “I did.” 

That got Ratchet’s attention. “You’re no longer a Decepticon?”

“No.”

That sounded almost too good to be true--but it’d be easy enough to see if Deadlock was lying when Ratchet was back aboard an Autobot ship. 

He refused to answer anymore of Ratchet’s questions, snarling at him to “ _ Just shut up.” _ while he continued to eye the hall. Ratchet didn’t take it personally anymore.

Living with someone in such tight quarters meant you got to know them fast--and well. 

Deadlock was nervous. 

They both knew Deadlock was in for another fight tonight. Just like they both weren’t sure that he was going to survive it. 

If _ anyone _ was going to survive it. 

Ratchet surrendered to the quiet, running plans once again through his processor.

They were going to make it out of this. He knew Deadlock straight up refused to die here. If the gunner could refuse--then Ratchet could too.

This wasn’t over. 

 

xXx

The halls were filled with dried blood. 

Energon too, and other patches of things that Ratchet didn’t want to closely examine. 

He ignored the smell of death, ignored the chants from the crowd that bounced the floor. 

Ignored everything but the push/pull on his chains and the mech walking next to him. 

He’d avoided this for nearly a week. Drift had helped--blatantly helped, considering the time he’d provoked the guards into a fight rather then let them take the medic. Ratchet’s time had run up though--he was one of the very Cybertronians left in their care. 

And they wanted their money’s worth. 

Drift had warned him that the fighters they would be facing were experienced with mechanical beings. Some were small--nearly as small as humans, while others were massive, nearing the bulk of Ratchet himself. All were at least partially organic, though most carried some kind of cybernetic mod. 

Ratchet was no slouch in the combat department but even he paused at the sheer number of opponents facing them.

“Stay close to me.” Deadlock hissed, as they were dragged forward towards massive, barred doors. “And don’t do anything  _ stupid _ .” That sounded more like an order than it did advice and in any other situation, Ratchet would have bristled. At the implication, at the order, at the fact that while Deadlock had more combat experience Ratchet was  _ far  _ from naive. 

He didn’t thought. What came out was a quiet; “Okay.” 

He didn’t know why he said it. Didn’t know why he thought Drift needed to hear it.

The mech did though. The acceptance eased the gunner’s worries, a touch of tension seeping out of his shoulder’s. 

It was only as the massive doors rose that Ratchet realized Drift was sneaking him worried looks--and by then, it was too late to think about what that might mean.

 

xXx

Drift fell into combat with relative ease. Ratchet followed, had no problems playing second to him. He let the gunner charge on ahead while he did his best to keep his back clear--and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that they both make it out alive. 

They worked well as a team, their combat styles amazingly complementary and if Ratchet had been able to stop long enough to vent he might’ve admitted they were practically perfectly matched as a medic/protector combo.

Too bad being perfectly matched  _ did not _ insure a victory.

It made sense for Ratchet to be targeted. He was clearly the weaker mech and slower to boot. He was giving as good as he got but the longer the fight dragged on the more exhaustion wore on him, and the more mistakes he made. 

He knew he was going to be the one to fuck up first. 

It just happened faster than even he thought it would. 

He miscalculated, took too long to avoid a hit. Driven away from Deadlock, blinded by a series of flashes, slowed down by whips and wires. 

A creature that could’ve passed for a bipedal shark raised a gun and fired. Perfect form, dead aim at his weakest spots. 

Ratchet didn’t even have to look to know the shot was going to be fatal. 

He’d accepted his fate before he’d even been hit. Struggled anyway to get away, to _ move, _ but accepted that he’d be too slow. 

He was halfway through thinking his apology to Drift when he mech  _ appeared. _

The deflection wasn’t the best, the shot tearing through a part of the former ‘Con’s side. Ratchet didn’t see what happened next--it went by too fast. Far too fast, for the hit Deadlock had taken. 

He didn’t have to look the mech in the optics to see the berserker’s rage had taken over. 

The deaths were less calculated after that. Ratchet was flagging but Deadlock moved like he had no limits, snarling, tearing,  _ destroying.  _ Energon flew from his side as he moved, cutting down what Ratchet realized was a dwindling amount of opponents, until, finally, the gunner felled an organic and  _ stopped.  _

Ratchet watched, fascinated, as a Deadlock turned on a heel to face him. The medic tensed waiting--wondering--if he would be attacked next, but the gunner didn’t move. Deadlock’s face searched his for a moment. A shudder went through his body, his fans screaming in the sudden silence.

He took two steps forward and collapsed. 

Frantic, screaming cheers rose around him making Ratchet flinch. The crowd morphed into a single, howling beast as fireworks blasted above. ‘Match Over!’ Announced the multitude of screens littered about the stadium, before moving to a shot of the arena. 

Only Ratchet remained standing. 

The CMO looked from the screen to the carnage around him with a kind of horrified awe. At all the bodies. At all of the needless, violent, deaths.  

At his victory. 

xXx

Getting back to the cell--being  _ alive  _ was almost too much for Ratchet to handle. Thankfully he didn’t have to think about it for long. Drift was tossed in with him, the hole in his side derailing the rest of Ratchet’s thoughts. 

Drift lay crumpled where he’d been thrown and Ratchet went to him immediately, doing what he could. It was a bad wound, almost fatal considering how Drift had pushed it--but Ratchet was the Chief Medical Officer. He’d fixed worse with less.

It was what he kept telling himself even when he knew he was lying. It was what pushed him to do what he’d always warned his own medics to never even think about--hacking away at himself for parts to fix Drift with.

Ratchet always had been a “do what I say, not as I do” kind of guy. 

He didn’t need the parts, anyway. Any energon he leaked in the process was carefully contained, then administered to Drift, who needed it desperately. 

Drift was barely going to be able to stand, let alone fight. That meant the waiting was over. The mission was fucked, the plans had gone out the door, there was no one else left to save and even if it killed him, Ratchet was going to pull at least one person out of this mess. 

Even if that person was Deadlock.

Especially if that person was Drift.

 

xXx  
  


Breaking out was exactly as hard as Ratchet thought it was going to be, with Drift half dead and Ratchet’s own frame buzzing angrily in pain. 

They made it, though. 

At least--they made it out of the faculty. They were still on a foreign planet, with an unknown number of enemies in hot pursuit. 

Well. A slightly lower number of unknown enemies after he’d rigged the arena to blow, but they weren’t clear yet. Not by a longshot. 

Drift allowed himself to lean on Ratchet’s shoulder, and Ratchet felt something in him ease. It was such a blatant display of trust, a revival of a connection that neither of them seemed to want to admit existed. It was there though, and Ratchet could no longer deny it.

He should fear Deadlock. Should fear him, and curse him, and wish him dead ten times over. He should have offlined him regardless of his medical oaths, just for the number of Autobot’s Deadlock had killed. For his brutality, his viciousness. 

The mech struggling next to him, trying to protect him wasn’t those things though-he was something  _ other. _ A mix of the two, a creature in the middle of a change. His viciousness turned protective, his brutality used to fuel their escape.

Ratchet couldn’t seem to help himself. Couldn’t stop the draw the felt to the gunner. 

What made him different than Sunny or Sides? What made him different from any of the Autobot’s frontline warriors, berserkers? Ratchet knew the reputation the twins had among Cons. Knew that mechs fled in terror before Jazz. Even mechs like Bluestreak held a high kill count with pride. 

It was foolish to think one person could change another, could temper an entire personality but it was foolish when both parties weren’t consenting to that change. Deadlock was no longer a Decepticon. Was shying from parts of his personality that Autobots would have objected to and Ratchet saw a chance. 

He couldn’t force a change, but he could give Deadlock an opportunity to do so himself. Could offer the help he should have given back in Dead End. 

It would be a long road for both of them, but if Drift was even the slightest bit willing…

Ratchet would give him the world. 

 

xXx

It took two weeks for them to meet up with the rescue party. Drift had recovered slowly, poorly, but he did recover. He stayed close, nearly hovering at Ratchet’s shoulder. He was tense--his field tucked in close, optics sharp as the shuttle landed. 

Ratchet didn’t know how he was going to react. He didn’t think Drift knew either. 

Ratchet reached out, taking a hold of his hand and squeezing before anyone approached. 

They had gotten this far. Drift had taken them this far--Ratchet knew he wouldn’t have survived without the others help. Wouldn’t have made it if Drift hadn’t taken hits for him, protected him when he was dragged into the arena. If Drift hadn’t trusted him to care for him, trusted he knew what was best when Drift could barely walk. 

Autobots spilled from the shuttle doors and the CMO made their presence known. 

“This is Ratchet. The mech with me is Drift.” 

“It’s Deadlock” Drift said, at the same time Red Alert ID’d him over comms. Difference was Red Alert was near frantic, while Drift just sounded resigned. 

“No.” Ratchet said, finally addressing their little back and forth. He turned to look at the mech next to him. “The mech I’m looking at _ is  _ Drift.” He held said mech’s optics as Red Alert protested, as the Autobot’s around them tensed. 

They didn’t get it--but Drift did. 

“Deadlock is dead.” He said quietly, so only Drift could hear. “Whether or not he is resurrected, is up to you.” 

The gunner stared at him, optics wide. Taking in all that sentence implied. 

Ratchet simply waited. 

Finally, he got a jerked nod, followed by a quiet “Alright.” 

For Ratchet, that was enough. “I  _ said _ he was Drift.” He snapped, pushing as much authority as he could muster into his voice. “Now are you lot going to stand there or are you going to  _ help me?”  _

That was familiar enough territory to make the surrounding mechs move, several of which muttering apologies to the offended CMO. It was just the beginning of a second uphill battle--scaring soldier’s into doing what he wanted was a lot easier than facing down the rest of Command, but Ratchet didn’t care. 

At this point in the war people needed to be given chances. Needed to take them. If they didn’t, then there was no hope for an end. 

Decepticons and Autobots would, eventually, have to coexist in the same space. This was just laying the groundwork early. 

If Drift wanted it, wanted to work for it, then Ratchet would back him. Would always back him. 

He might’ve failed the mission, failed every mech that had died in that arena. 

But he hadn’t failed Drift.

He had no intentions of starting to do so now. 

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if it's clear the gladiator masters also helped heal Drift when they took him out for their other, non-fighting activities, but that's also what helps him go from about to die to can stay alive to fight.


End file.
